Free Hitting on the Hooker by Mina Carter

Chapter One
     
    She’d been
stood up. Unbelievable.
    Fern Morgan
checked her watch, a thin gold affair that always ended up with the
face on the underside of her wrist, and wrinkled her nose. Yup,
forty minutes late and no message. Greg had stood her up. Great. No
doubt he’d had a better offer. Story of her life. Her love life
wasn’t just DOA, it had been MIA for at least the last couple of
years.
    Checking out
the level in her glass, she abandoned any pretence of being a lady
and downed the drink in one swallow. She grimaced. Wine had never
been her favorite. Since it seemed her date wasn’t going to show
his face, the next round would be whatever the hell she wanted.
    “Vodka and
lime,” she ordered when she had the bartender’s attention, ignoring
his pitying look at the fact that she was still alone. He’d
probably seen it all, so there was no point bluffing. A woman
didn’t sit at a bar—on her own—for almost an hour for kicks and
giggles, not a high class one like this. No, this was date
territory, a venue classy enough to make that all-important first
impression. Which meant the décor was first class, as were the
prices of the drinks.
    Greg had picked
it. Bastard.
    “Vodka for the
lady.” The bartender slid the glass in front of her, the ice inside
clinking together as it stopped. “Can I get you anything else?”
    Sensing he
wanted to hang around and chat, she shook her head. After a long
week at work, and the disappointed anticipation of a not-date with
Greg from Acquisitions, she wasn’t in the mood. All she wanted to
do was commune with her drink, get happily buzzed, and head on home
to seek consolation in the tub of ice-cream she kept on reserve at
the back of the freezer.
    Looking up
after the bartender moved off, she caught sight of herself in the
mirror behind the bar. The wrong side of thirty, her shift-dress
covered a figure with a few more curves than she would have liked.
Whatever she did, no amount of sweating it out in the gym or
starving herself would get those last few stubborn pounds to move,
so she’d given up.
    Her hair was
short and sleek, a neat bob that framed her face, the dark color
natural. Thank God. She couldn’t do the whole once a month ordeal
some women at the office went through to stay blonde, or black, or
whatever color they’d decided they wanted to be.
    Her face was
made up, but in the subtle style she preferred. A slick of lippy, a
quick flick of eyeliner a la Audrey Hepburn, some mascara, and she
was done. No false lashes here, thank you very much. She’d tried
them once, and ended up with the bloody things stuck to her cheek
like damn caterpillars. Never again.
    Bored with her
reflection—after all, it was nothing new—she took a healthy sip of
her drink and savoured the burn as it went down. Damn, that was
good vodka. No watering down here, that was for sure, which was a
bloody good job with these prices. She cast a baleful look at the
wine list by her elbow. She earned good money, but these prices
were ludicrous.
    The door at the
front of the bar crashed open, and loud male voices announced the
arrival of a large group. The bar staff froze for a second before
the one nearest to her, the one who had tried to engage her in
conversation, groaned.
    “Great, the
Sharks. Molly, I’m heading out on my break.” And with that he was
gone, leaving the girl at the other end of the bar shooting a glare
full of daggers after him.
    Fern studied
the chaos at the front of the bar through the mirror. The
Strathstow Sharks were famous for their abilities on the pitch, the
favoured sons of the town when they’d stormed to victory in the
premiership and won the cup, and infamous for their somewhat
exuberant nights out in the local bars. They were loud, brash, and
could be a pain in the backside when celebrating.
    If she’d know
they were playing today, she might have thought twice about coming
out tonight—date with Greg or not. A night in might have worked a
lot